BBC SHERLOCK 1: MISSING IN ACTION
by Wynsom
Summary: John Watson is missing during an Underground derailment. With both a very pregnant Mary and Sherlock fearing for his safety, Sherlock goes to the scene to find his friend and grapples with the difficulties of human nature—mostly his own. Chapters 1 and 2 have been reworked. (Special nod to Honourable for her kind candor.) For those who might choose to reread, thank you!
1. Chapter 1

_**(Author's note: Chapters 1 and 2 have been reworked from the original "light" version to give it more substance. For those who might choose to reread it, I hope you will find this second reading worth your while. A special nod to **_**_Honourable_**_** for her kind candor.)**_

_**Outside the Yellow Tape**_

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"Is John with you?"

At the kitchen table, Sherlock turned down the flame on his Bunsen burner and tilted his neck to hold the phone. "Mary?" Leaving his goggles in place, he examined the results of his ongoing experiment, the charred scrap of fabric in his occluding clamps.

"…I'm, I'm looking for…John." The desperate worry she tried to conceal prompted Sherlock to shut off the burner and shove the safety glasses onto his head.

Receiving a call—not just a text—from Mary was not out of the ordinary, but her trembly voice was.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?" Quickly, the detective sifted through the current status of Mrs. Watson's condition as last reported by John. "Bed rest...any day now." The proud father and doctor, all smiles and eyes twinkling, could not have been more hopeful …or anxious. Sherlock had the same mixed emotions, but he wouldn't let on.

"Oh, no! It's not me. I'm fine, well mostly, except for feeling constantly irritated and weepy, my hormones must be so out of control, and yes, I've _now_ been ordered to stay off my feet…." Mary dismissed the question with wearied nonchalance. "Anyway. Nothing, yet."

_Right! So, where's John? _

The question about John's _current_ location rewound Sherlock's memory. The final vivid image was the back of John's head as he headed out, the last sound was the parting words tossed over his shoulder: "Okay, right then," and the "loci" for remembering it all was yesterday's newspaper, the headline in plain view, draped over the armchair. It was still there, where John left it yesterday.

_Was he supposed to be with me today?_ The consulting detective reviewed his mental checklist for the day. Whilst he often merged John's actual presence with the useful one in his mind, he was certain they had not planned to meet, nor was his partner off on an investigative errand.

It was part of an unspoken agreement among the three of them. As the due date drew closer, the investigative team of Holmes and Watson (_mostly_ Watson) had scaled back on cases. Lately, the "deplorable" conditions of London crime scenes had yielded 3s and 4s on Sherlock's Beaufort scale of Crime Scene Interest, not requiring either of them to leave the flat—thereby avoiding dangerous situations—and allowing them to be on call for Mary and baby or B.S.W.

Sherlock could not discount the influence of the yet-to-be born presence in their lives. Referencing the unborn in his thoughts had become unavoidable, especially as her impending arrival was the constant focus of both Watsons. For simplicity's sake, Sherlock had decided on the acronym B.S.W. At least it was more efficient than the awkward full nomenclature: Baby _Shirley_ Watson, which seemed to be occupying her still tenuous spot in his Mind Palace.

Whilst John and Mary's anticipation of childbirth were matched by his own, the detective was more looking forward to when they could resume _The Work_ without such encumbrances and distractions.

"Did he plan on coming here?" The graduate chemist stepped away from his lab equipment, tossed the perishable materials into the refrigerator for preservation, shrugged off his tartan dressing gown, and headed to his bedroom.

"Actually, no. This afternoon, he was supposed to be picking up…oh, well…that's not important. It's …I'm worried. Have you seen the telly? Some breaking news is giving me a bad feeling." Mary's voice caught. "There's been an explosion or a fire… They think it's due to a power surge, but it caused a derailment, and massive Underground disruptions…."

Rummaging for cleaner socks whilst he listened with the phone wedged between ear and shoulder, Sherlock selected the day's pair as noted by his sock index, slammed the drawer shut, slipped them on, and headed to the landing.

"Metronet say," Mary continued, "this occurred in the Hammersmith &amp; City line, late in the morning, more like lunch hour, but the number of passengers were near peak, due to some traveling international art exhibit, of course, there's the annual Boat Show, maybe something else. A lot of January attractions, I don't know _what_ really. What I do know is all this happened about an hour ago…many injuries…some fatalities feared…It's on the telly!"

"Hmmmm… didn't hear. Been caught up in experiments…." Among her many talents, Mary's intuition had been one Sherlock most admired, but his own powers of deduction had prepared him for what she was about to say. He put on his shoes, and grabbed his overcoat off the peg on the landing.

"I'm, I'm afraid…he was there…," voice cracking, Mary cleared her throat, "I can't ring him up…can't text. His phone's not working…If doctor's orders didn't have me on bed rest, I'd be there myself. Still might go... "

"No! Take care of your baby. I'll go take care of John for you," he knotted his scarf, "but tell me _where_, exactly…."

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Sirens wailed, the Doppler effect swelling and fading, producing an overlapping frenzy of noise, until the ambulances and police cars moved past. Swirling red and blue lights signaled that rescue and recovery operations were underway. The cautious evacuation of vehicles and the crush of people heading away, with alarm plainly on their faces, impeded Sherlock's progress toward the hectic scene. The taxi had had to discharge Sherlock blocks away or turn back. Now, with collar raised against the mid-January chill, his scarf wrapped tighter, the deliberately hatless Sherlock Holmes braced himself as he walked through the enormous crowd toward a strategic vantage point. No view was unobstructed, but the consulting detective found a location at the edge of the crowd where he observed nearly a hundred passengers, some with soot-blackened faces looking dazed, others merely frightened, and still others relieved. They were leaving the Tube station with assistance and being guided toward first-aid stations.

During his cab ride, Sherlock had calculated the number of carriages per train (six or seven), each with a seating capacity of 152 passengers, totaling a maximum of 1,064 during peak ridership. At the actual scene, it appeared to his discerning eye that many more passengers were still subsurface in the Tube. And if more than one train were affected, one could double that number.

A large area surrounding the Farringdon Tube Station in Clerkenwell had been cordoned off by yellow police tape to create triage stations for those in immediate or urgent need. Police and fire service vehicles along with London Ambulance Service had parked in a strategic herringbone pattern to prevent penetration by unofficial vehicles. Lingering outside the yellow tape, camera crews accompanied BBC and CTV reporters in heavy coats, who searched for sound bites among the gaping onlookers and concerned citizens, poking microphones under their noses and waiting.

Since these observations were scarcely providing pertinent information to further his data collection, Sherlock moved methodically through the mob searching for better views. At one point, he stood on tiptoes, looking for Lestrade, or any familiar Met official who might give him special clearance.

Instead, his elevated advantage showed him the grim sight of recovered bodies laid about twenty meters away in orderly rows on the cold street. Only shoes, socks, or bare feet were sticking out from the blankets. At quick glance, Sherlock counted the feet of seven men, three women, and two smaller bundles completely covered, no feet showing. Determined to keep on track, Sherlock blocked the shock of the children with clinical detachment.

The cacophony of sirens and shouting made listening impossible. Since his arrival, Sherlock had been regularly checking his mobile for missed calls or texts; yet, neither his contacts, his network, not even Mary, had tried communicating with him. Nothing was as it should be. If he were running a _typical_ investigation, Sherlock wouldn't have considered connecting with anyone with so little substantive information, but something he had learned from John—_"one word was all I needed_"—compelled him to be atypical. He called Mary.

"Mary! Has John called? No? All right, then. It's still early, and locating authorities has been a challenge. Certain there will be an opportunity to connect with them quite soon."

It was hard to hear her. Either the nearby noise was too loud or her voice was strained from worry.

Uncertain how to assuage Mary's fears, Sherlock pondered,_ what would John suggest I do?_ The answer seemed suddenly obvious. With precision, the detective got to the heart of the matter, "Don't worry. I promise you. I _will_ find him."

"…I know you will, Sherlock." At that moment, she clearly heaved a sob. "If anyone can…." Her faith in him, like John's, was humbling. Ending the call, Sherlock could only hope_ how_ he might find him would be "alive and well."

The detective thumbed a quick text to Lestrade and Mycroft: _JW missing. At derailment site. Need information__._

He paused thoughtfully, then, reluctantly forwarded the same message to Molly Hooper. The only one he did not want to hear back from was Molly, but the lack of an immediate reply from the other two tested his patience. _Give them some time, John would say. _It only took a few moments for Molly to reply with: _Don't Worry, _followed by a smiling emoticon. Whilst Sherlock realized she was attempting to distract him from worry, it was quite unnecessary. He was perfectly equipped to control fears or anxieties through his normal methods of reason and logic. Perhaps, her desire to comfort him was a reflection of her own sense of worry.

Indeed, the worry of the masses surrounded him and forced him to become more detached to keep his mind clear. Listening to the shouts and murmurs from the crowd—endless questions and comments in chaotic spurts—the consulting detective attempted to gather empirical data through their emotionally-charged chatter.

_"How did this happen?"_

_"On the telly, they saying it could be as many as four trains involved…"_

_"Oh__, My God!"_

_"Do you see my daughter? Tracy, do you see her? She's not picking up her mobile."_

_"There's Bret! I see Bret! He's okay! BRET! BRET! Over here!"_

_"Lightning. They say it was a lightning strike…" _

_"Not in winter!"_

_"Too cold, too cold out."_

_"Bet it's a terrorist thing!"_

_"Look at them. Who is responsible here? This is an outrage!"_

_"SHUT UP! Can't 'ear what the constable's saying!_

_"Move. Must get through! My wife's there…Help? Help me? Let me by!"_

The intense emotions were over-stimulating, however. Sherlock needed to ground his sharpened senses from excessive sentiment with a different focus to help him differentiate the irrelevant fretting from the important facts.

Looking across the way, his eyes were drawn to A&amp;E teams from Hammersmith and Bart's hospitals. Standing ready in the street, heavy jackets covering those who were still in scrubs, the men and women were watching for orders to assist. Immediately he thought of John._ He'd be one of the first to respond._

Maneuvering through the pulsing crowd, Sherlock approached the doctors and nurses with intentions to overhear, if not to engage them, for more information about the crisis. Tapping the shoulder of a young woman doctor for attention, Sherlock guardedly produced his purloined copy of Lestrade's Inspector's ID, and leaned closer. "What do you know?" His baritone was barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of the emergency vehicles on site and the blended yowl of the distressed.

"No one knows yet what caused the derailment, but there are definitely two trains incapacitated with loads of passengers needing to be evacuated through the Tube," she shouted her reply.

The man beside her added, "casualties are coming in. Helpful passengers have been assisting rescue operations, but we're still unsure of how many and what kind of injuries we will be dealing with. Looked bad at first, some burn and smoke inhalation victims, but most coming out right now seem ambulatory." Even as he finished speaking, he and the woman were summoned to a triage station and sprinted away, leaving Sherlock at the kerb.

An RN, who had just broken off a conversation with a Met officer, caught Sherlock's eye. Perhaps his perplexed face compelled her to relay the information. "Apparently, in one of the trains, there are three derailed carriages full of passengers at the Underground derailment site. Several passengers are critical, and they can't be moved out until the equipment can be moved, and rescue can get past the blockage. I'm told there are medical people staying with them."

Nodding his thanks to her, Sherlock stepped away, unable to side-step the frustration and helplessness of being excluded from the rescue operation for which his skills were nonessential. He had to resign himself to only one role—that of a mere observer—and wait until the truth unfolded. Patience was hardly his best attribute, but with a timely text from Lestrade: _W_orking on it, __Sherlock had enough confirmation _to _send a quick text to Mary. Composing it in haiku format was a private exercise in self-control:

**_Some progress at site_**

**_Mycroft Lestrade are on it_**

**_Waiting to hear more_**

Mary texted back: **_Staying positive. _**The way she had sounded earlier, Sherlock found that hard to believe.

Moments later, Mycroft actually called. "Well, the good news is they ruled out a terrorist act."

"What about casualties?" His phone pressed into his ear, head bowed as he weaved through the crowd, Sherlock was momentarily uninterested in hearing raw statistics. Fortunately, Mycroft had none.

"In that area, regrettably, you know as much as I. The Met and Metronet are coordinating rescue and recovery activities and that will take time. One derailment, but two trains are immovable in the Tube. That's almost two thousand people who have to _climb_ back out. Some are elderly, some unfit for unusually rigorous activity, and then there are safety issues with the power shut off. Most people find total darkness unsettling."

"Let me have access!" Determination had restored Sherlock's focus. Information was what he sought. "There is nothing like first-hand evidence."

"And what would you do? Deduce your way to find the cause of the power surge? I doubt their experts would tolerate your meddling. Find John, then? Once the blocked Tube is opened and the engineers can ensure that no structural damage would jeopardize evacuation, those trapped passengers will be pouring out. John Watson will _probably _be one of them."

Sherlock kept silent and let his brother ramble. Mycroft had sunk to offering hope in probabilities as though he doubted his younger brother's ability to rise above strangling sentiment, even about John.

"Excepting _your friend_, I find most ordinary people are easily frightened by change in their daily routine. Now imagine those same poor souls are thrown into a situation that is not only unexpected and startling, but catastrophic. How, Sherlock, do you expect to handle that emotional tidal wave when it rises to the surface? My advice to you, dear brother, is stand back. Or better, go back to your flat as fast as you can, let the experts handle this crisis, and John will contact you when he surfaces."

"You underestimate my tolerance, as usual. Rather, I need clearance to stay. Don't want to be shooed away like one of the curious spectators. Just permission to remain on site, for information, until I am satisfied…."

"Satisfied? We all know that's _not possible_ for you."

Perpetuating the volley of verbal taunts was pointless. It would only prolong the delay of the resolution he wanted. Sherlock held his tongue, grudgingly.

"What have we here? Restraint?" his brother marveled, although light sarcasm laced his words. "That is a _good_ sign, Sherlock. Even regarding your friend, you still _have __control. You will need it,_ especially when the emotional floodgates burst." Mycroft inhaled thoughtfully before delivering his decision. "Fine, then. You'll get your access, but _stay_ out of trouble!"

"Well?" The younger brother could hear in his elder brother's voice unfinished advice. "What else?"

"Yes, there is one more thing, Sherlock." Mycroft's tone dropped to a serious level. "Don't let sentiment warp your sense of probability. So far, the ratio of fatalities to passengers seems to be relatively low. Do the calculations and focus on probability, not possibility!"

The call ended before Sherlock could reply.

As the afternoon sun sank, the crisis also seemed well passed its zenith. The noise level had dropped. Within the three hours since his arrival at the site, (in which time Sherlock texted Mary an update per hour), the mass exodus from the Underground slowed to an occasional surge, then ultimately a trickle of stragglers that included some Metronet workers in reflective vests, and Met personnel on the investigation.

There was still no sign of John, however. The 'ratio of probability to possibility' was becoming problematic.

The clamor of humanity surrounded him, but Sherlock resolved to remain isolated and disconnected. Mycroft's past warning "…_hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,"_ and his own words; _"All emotions, and particularly love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things,"(_pronounced publicly at John and Mary's wedding so many—actually so few—months ago), were unfailing tenets that carried him through every crisis. He especially needed to uphold them _now…._

Despite his commitment to keep the requisite emotional distance, Sherlock couldn't keep a physical one. He wouldn't leave, because the greatest _probability_ was that John was still there. He couldn't let Mary down. Hadn't he vowed to do whatever it takes for _all three_ of them?

Under the fading light of day, the evening had become coated in a thin fog. Loved ones huddled, expecting answers from the hustling officials who were too worn to offer any. Sorrow and distress were written on the faces of those who waited beside Sherlock in the crowd. Although he chose to stand apart, the detective understood their sense of hopelessness and uselessness. For reasons he did not want to entertain, it was becoming much harder to detach from the immense worry, the absolute dread about the _possibility_ of losing his loyal friend—"the bravest and wisest and kindest human being," Sherlock Holmes had "ever had the good fortune of knowing."

It was abiding allegiance to John Watson, not just _cold reason_, which gave Sherlock the strength to _stand opposed_ to despair in that moment. And stand he would, along with all the worried people around him, until he found John.

And finally he realized that by sharing in this clamor of humanity, he was not actually alone.


	2. Chapter 2 Within the Yellow Tape

_**Within the Yellow Tape**_

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By the time dusk settled into nighttime, swirling fog misted the air, and temperatures had fallen below the average, making the near freezing lows decidedly unpleasant for the curious onlookers. Most had gone home. Reporters continued feeding the news by local hookups and via satellite, without intruding into the cordoned areas protected by police. Within the "work" zone, balloon lighting and light towers had been erected to keep the visibility at efficient levels for the emergency workers and the victims still being brought to the surface.

Only relatives of the injured or deceased, or those with special access were granted clearance by the tight security detail. One-by-one, they crossed the barrier of yellow tape for instructions and to gain information.

Along with the anxious next-of-kin standing in the queue for the names of those who were treated and released, Sherlock shivered and patted his gloved hands together for warmth. His updated but unanswered texts to Mary each hour only confirmed that John had not yet returned home under his own steam, and no one else had contacted Sherlock with any news. With John still unaccounted for, Sherlock was required to proceed through the first station.

"Looking for John _H-for-Hamish _Watson, a medical doctor." There had been several Watsons: Jon and Johnny and Jack, the whereabouts of the first two had been confirmed, the last was only now being processed. Several times whilst waiting, Sherlock's ears perked to the name, only to realize it was common enough to be misleading. As far as he was concerned, there was only ONE John Watson. At last, however, when it was his turn to speak to the woman with a knit cap, seated on a portable chair at the makeshift information table, Sherlock stood tall, though somewhat stiff from the unrelenting chill, and enunciated the name with emphasis: "John '_H._' Watson."

"Watson, John…H….hmmmm. John R…, Jonathan W…No John H. on my list." Puffs of air condensed as the sympathetic woman spoke. Perusing her list several times, she shook her head, but added encouragingly. "We only have partial information at this table. Try the other two stations. Your John _H._ Watson could be listed at either of those."

Perplexed and exasperated by the confounding lack of information, Sherlock leaned in closer, refusing to move. "Have you no _means_ to link your data …?"

"We're doing the best we can, sir, under the circumstances." The woman gave him a harder look, her own frustration showing in her eyes.

Sherlock opened his mouth, about to suggest how, under the _same_ circumstances, they could better implement a _functional_ plan to expedite the process more efficiently.

_Stay out of trouble! _

It was John's voice he heard in his head, not Mycroft's. It interrupted Sherlock's overpowering desire to berate the sluggishness of the entire operation. Instead, he stopped. Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, Sherlock swallowed his words. For the first time in his life he felt truly dumbfounded.

"Next!" The woman peered around him to the person behind, showing him with the point of her index finger where he was required to go.

Shackled by patience, the consulting detective silently followed directions to the recommended information table. More than once throughout the evening he had needed to suppress his customary indignation and clamp his mouth shut lest his unbridled behavior became reason to have him ousted, or worse, carted away for disturbing the peace. He had only made it thus far by sheer will and self-control, constantly reminding himself that a vow is a vow _—whatever it takes, __…__ for all three of you. _He never expected "whatever" would apply to dealing with insufferable stagnation at a crisis scene_. _

"Sherlock!" Whilst standing in yet another queue, the detective heard Lestrade's call and looked around.

"Any news of John?" The Inspector asked as he hurried over.

"_My_ question. You're supposed to have the answers!" Sherlock frowned as he sized up the DI. The particularly challenging day had left Lestrade looking more worn than usual under the harsh lighting on a cold night, but Sherlock felt relieved to see a friend who shared his concern. "I am doing my part…I am dutifully waiting in every excruciating queue they recommend…If _half _of these_ extraordinarily_ patient people," Sherlock whispered and swiveled his head to indicate everyone else around him, "were less distraught and were paying attention, they wouldn't need to be queuing up with me. It would go much faster for us all."

"How's that?" Only after he asked, did Greg Lestrade wish he had bit his tongue instead. Somehow he couldn't refrain from soliciting explanations from his number-one consultant who was always too willing to demonstrate what everyone else missed.

"Just by observing. For example, I saw _that_ man's sister—the man who's inquiring about her now, _a little too late, I might add, _with the attendant—had been treated and released. Mobiles are ringing in evidence boxes and nobody's picking up. That's a potential connection loss right there! Look, over there; _that_ older woman's daughter, an adult herself in her mid-twenties who works as a shop clerk," he nodded toward his left, "was taken by ambulance, broken arm it seems, but the mother was so hysterical about what station she needed to check, she missed her daughter entirely." Sherlock shook his head. "A total restructuring of this entire procedure would be first on my list of recommendations, _but_," Sherlock raised his gloved palms up, "I am not interfering. To be granted access, _I promised_ I wouldn't cause trouble."

"Well, that's good. Keep it that way." Grinning at the oddly compliant Sherlock, Greg Lestrade sighed. "Sometimes these so-called helpless people need to hear what they already know from someone in authority. Bad or good, if the news comes from a reliable source they will have to accept it eventually. The longer it takes to get the news, the more frightened they become."

Something about Sherlock's eyes told Lestrade his impatient friend understood this part all too well. He also looked like he could use a cigarette. _Hell,_ they both could.

"It's disheartening, Lestrade." The consulting detective redirected his gaze as if something beyond deserved his attention.

"Yeah." The Inspector nodded, concerned.

"Being helpless. Like sheep." When Sherlock's eyes returned to meet Lestrade's, they had become dark with anger, but his words were hardly audible. "This herd mentality robs us of our individuality."

"For some, it's a comfort, not to be alone, even in worry," The DI shrugged. Sympathy and empathy were not in Sherlock's regular lexicon, Lestrade realized, but it didn't preclude the possibility that he might feel these emotions on occasion. However, absolute _helplessness_ was more than Sherlock could take.

"Worry is useless. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to _clear _reasoning." Sherlock seemed to be finding renewed strength as he stated his thoughts aloud to the Inspector. "It doesn't change anything, whether you are part of a group or whether you are alone. However, when the masses stand idle —such as now—for excessively long periods, unnecessary trepidation arises."

"Unfortunately, following counter-terrorism procedures and implementing search-and-rescue operations require precise synchronization." Lestrade shook his head ruefully. "Many were trapped deep within the Tube. For safety reasons, it had to be slow and steady. So far it's yielded the best results. We lost some today, the count is just about fifteen so far, but it could have been far, far worse. Tough day all around. Oh, I did make a special request about _your_ Watson. Told everyone I _needed _to be contacted if John's name came up. A few Watson close calls, but not _our _man."

"Did you check the John_ Doe's_, Lestrade?" asked Sherlock, looking elsewhere again, except at the Inspector.

Lestrade looked down the street sharing the same thought. "Until they move out all the equipment, they're not certain." He raised his weary eyes to meet those of the man who had helped him solve so many cases and boosted his career. "But, those they've brought to the surface have been identified and verified." He looked away again. His salt-and-pepper hair gleamed in the bright light.

"Well, he couldn't just _disappear _without a trace."

Lestrade squinted at Sherlock, appraising the thin man known for his hair-trigger nerves, the deductive genius intolerant of the rampant ineptitude that inhabited everyone's "funny little brains." Ordinarily the disdainful man would be unable to contain his wild ranting and rude bellowing about everything wrong with the operations, but here he was, standing obediently, somewhat quiet, among ordinary folk, awaiting word of his friend and holding it in—all for John Watson.

"You're a true friend." Lestrade offered and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Hey, do yourself a favor. Follow your own _brilliant_ advice. Don't worry ahead of the facts, okay?" he advised. "_Our_ John Watson's a resourceful guy…." The Inspector couldn't finish, as if sudden doubt clipped his voice. A tired expression overtook his features, and he glanced away. Quicker still, he strode off without another word.

"Dr. John H. Watson?" Sherlock said distinctly at the next station for the names of those who were sent by ambulance for hospital evaluation. Stifling yet another tirade about the belabored progress, Sherlock closed his eyes. The relentless images of worried and distraught faces around him were nearing sensory overload, and Sherlock was not sure if he could appear controlled for much longer.

"Not listed." The paramedic in a peacoat with a scarf wrapped up to his nose answered after making a thorough check.

"Go to the _next_ station," Sherlock mocked aloud before the man could order him. He turned a frown on the hapless middle-aged woman waiting behind him and fretted. "_This_ is impossible_! No one _can deduce a known outcome here!"

Bounding meters away from the 'herd,' Sherlock sought isolation where he could recoup his composure. After pacing briefly in a tight circle, he tented his fingers under his chin in a gesture he frequently used for contemplation and quieted his body and his mind. Despite his genius, he was as useless as the next man. At least, if it were an investigation, he could manipulate his connections and take charge. Instead, for a rescue-and-recovery operation, his advice was of no value, nor could he predict with any certainty how it would turn out. A sense of utter futility was fueling an irrational fear that he was letting down the people who were most important to him. More irrational was allowing this fear to take control and compel him to violence.

_Yes, Sherlock, because getting thrown in gaol would serve no purpose, the John-in-his-mind reminded him._

Sobered by these thoughts, Sherlock queued into the last group with a long face, finding himself at the crossroads of the impossible and the improbable, whilst closing in on the truth. This realization came with a bitterness he could taste. There, among the bereaved, who were systematically receiving confirmation about their loved ones and counseling by trained professionals on site, he waited in turn.

"John H. Watson, a medical doctor?" Fearing to see anything familiar, Sherlock glimpsed the last victims being zipped into body bags and loaded for the city morgues.

"Are you next of kin?" The lethargic official asked staring at his paperwork, apparently practiced at no longer looking into the faces of the grieving, or perhaps too weary to care.

"Yes!" without hesitation. "He's my brother."

Flipping back and forth through the hand-written list of names, the official showed confusion and fatigue, becoming frustrated by his own lack of focus. "Spell it."

"W-A-T-S-O-N, John H. The H is for Hamish. A medical doctor." _Has it not yet been _forty-three _times that I've said the man's name tonight? Shall I repeat it again, and again and again…? _ With tremendous effort, he curtailed his flaring temper, exhaling an impatient and audible sigh, rather than exploding with a verbal assault that would make the man's ears bleed.

For several tedious moments, the man flipped through the sheets. "Just a minute." He said, still without looking up, and went over to a box of belongings that had been found with deceased victims. Even this brief wait seemed interminable, but the man's body language informed Sherlock before he declared, "Oh here! Got something. You said _Watson._ First name, again?"

"John H. Watson." It came out in a hoarse choking sound. Sherlock thought he might drown in… _disappointment_.

"Okay. Got this. A wallet. Has an ID for a Medical Doctor. Came outta this jacket, here. It was covering a victim." He held both up. Sherlock recognized them and dread clutched his heart. "But, the victim had two IDs. This one didn't match. Belonged to somebody else. We can't release it, 'til it's been properly catalogued. It just may be this John H. Watson fella left already." The man walked back and took his seat.

"Left how? By walking away? Taken by ambulance, or ….sent to the morgue?" Anguish replaced anger for the briefest of moments.

"Sorry about your brother, Mr. …Watson." The man looked down at the list again shaking his head and finally met Sherlock's narrowing glance. "We're doing the best we can in this emergency. Sometimes a person gets through without proper processing, but we'll usually get someone on it to track it all down…Sure something will turn up in a few more hours… " He shrugged with a second thought, " …if not days."

_Not days!_

Grabbing the edges of the makeshift table until his knuckles turned white, Sherlock didn't know whether he was going to lift and throw the table over the man's head, bodily lift the man from his chair and throw him into the street, or do both— a additional vow, one for himself, arose from the depths of his sudden rage: _this __one __is for me!_

Commotion, mostly cheers, distracted him from causing immediate mayhem. Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of the light towers that lit the entrance, Sherlock squinted and stared intensely through the light fog. The last few victims, already bagged with IVs, emerged from the station on stretchers, and were hurried into waiting ambulances. Holding his breath, Sherlock examined each patient carried along. He saw only women, no men, among the injured.

The familiar motion of one paramedic running alongside the third and most critical patient caught Sherlock's attention. On closer look he could see the back of an athletic but compact man, jacketless, wearing a filthy, blood-splattered shirt with torn sleeves. The man was holding the hand of an older woman in the race toward the opened doors of a waiting ambulance. Even before they had reached it, the paramedics ran out to meet them and took over.

"Thanks, Doc!" barely made it to Sherlock's ears as the doors slammed and the last casualty was driven to hospital, leaving the man who had accompanied the patient staring as it sped away. Alone now, the doctor shivered in the cold. His adrenaline—the fuel that sustained him throughout the emergency—quickly ebbed, and he nearly staggered where he stood.

Overcome, Sherlock gazed at the definitive outline—the man he feared he'd never see alive and well.

_"JOHN!"_

What followed was a blur of sweeping motion.

John turned around when he heard his name. Instantly, he recognized his friend, rushing toward him, surrounding him with strong sinewy arms. Triggered by relief, the doctor collapsed, resting his head against the welcoming warmth of the famous coat.

Lifting his sagging friend to the closest available seat, Sherlock required reassurances. "You're not hurt, John? For God's sake, tell me you're not hurt!" He removed his greatcoat and draped the warm garment over the doctor's shoulders; the scarf he quickly wrapped round John's neck to fend off the night draft.

"I'm okay. Just bloody tired." John looked up, surprised by the moist gleam in his friend's eyes, by the undisguised relief on his friend's face, and by the warmest of smiles that transformed those sharp features with heartfelt sentiment. In that moment, John felt his intense Underground ordeal was worth the reward of seeing deep affection in Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock?_" _John stared in disbelief, wondering if he weren't dreaming. The shocking brightness of the light towers was disorienting, making the scene seem surreal. John looked round, searching, _Where's Mary? Is she here too?_ he wanted to ask, but exhaustion blocked his words, his limbs grew heavy, and his thoughts struggled to make sense of the illuminated world on the surface; all were symptoms of adrenaline wearing off.

"We need paramedics here! We need blankets!" Sherlock shouted to no one in particular. With his focus exclusively on John's well-being, he gave a commanding roar that cut through the night. "This man's in shock!"

"No, I'm _not,_ Sherlock," John weakly lifted his hand to wave off attention.

"You're too much in shock to know you're in shock." Standing close behind his friend, Sherlock leant over and began rubbing his hands briskly up and down John's arms.

_"_What are _you_ doing _here_?" John whispered his thought aloud, immediately drained by the effort. Silently, he yielded to invigorating massage with a roll of his head and the rotation of his aching shoulders.

"Isn't it obvious? Finding you!" Impatient, Sherlock's gave a second boisterous appeal for help. It was unnecessary; the paramedics, rescue crew members, and volunteers had arrived.

"B'rrow yur phone, Sssherlk…?"John heard himself mumble somewhere from within his brain fog, but passing shadows over his face made him wonder if he were losing consciousness.

"Look, it's him!" interrupted a shadow with a female voice.

John blinked, clearly seeing a paramedic, in uniform coat and cap, shouting to her colleagues as she stood in front of him. "We've been looking for you," she told John kindly, and folded an orange blanket over the greatcoat already on his shoulders to keep in the warmth. "Here, drink this now," a water bottle was placed in his hand, "to start hydration. After this, we'll get you something hot."

"Yes! Glad we found you!" A male paramedic in uniform knelt reached and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around John's sleeveless bicep. "Dizzy?"

John nodded and closed his eyes.

As soon as John had requested it, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, vexed he hadn't thought to do so sooner, but now as his friend was receiving professional attention, he stepped aside and punched in the number himself—"_Mary!"_ She had picked up on the first ring. "He's okay, Mary! He's fine!" He announced with authoritative calm, although his hands were trembling.

Again, Sherlock couldn't actually hear Mary, couldn't tell if she was crying, laughing or even talking. "I'll put him on. Hang on! Hang on, Mary!"

Holding the mobile away from his head, Sherlock discovered John was unapproachable, blockaded by a sizeable crowd of emergency responders, gesturing and pointing at _his_ John H. Watson, Medical Doctor. "Hold on, Mary." He brought the phone back to his lips. "This may take a moment." So tight was the formation around John, Sherlock had to pick up a spare orange blanket from a kit bag on the ground and vigorously flagged it to make any advance_._

Sherlock muscled past the outer rim of John's admirers, catching snippets of dialogue.

"_This passenger should be commended for his help," a volunteer remarked to the male paramedic beside her._

_"Not just any passenger, a_ doctor,"_ the paramedic whispered back. "That's why the rescue team let him stay to assist." _

Conversations continued with revelations, the deeper Sherlock pushed through the crowd:

"_It was like a war zone in the derailed carriage!"_

_"When we finally got down there, he was already moving among the passengers assisting the injured, assuring the frightened; working triage. Saved us time and patient__s' lives by expediting who should be treated first."_

_"_Still there, Mary?" The detective said to the phone tucked under his chin. "Almost through."

At last, Sherlock fought his way to the center, where the kneeling paramedic finished with John's vitals, and patted the patient's knee before standing, "BP good! Vitals steady. Dizziness gone, Doc?"

"A bit," answered the man who had mastered the art of understatement.

"Good, now drink this." Someone handed him a cup of coffee, "Careful, it's hot!"

"John!" Sherlock held the phone in one raised hand, waving the orange blanket for attention in the other. "It's Mary!"

John managed the broadest smile of thanks as he grabbed the mobile." Mary! Mary!" he shouted and then his eyes spilled tears.

Allowing John the requisite privacy to talk to his wife, Sherlock turned his back toward his friend, wrapped himself in the spare orange blanket to ward off the night chill—John was still wearing his coat—and gently backed up the crowd of admirers with his long arms.

They were a persistent lot, however; apparently, they had unfinished business with the good doctor. When John ended his call with Mary, a group of paramedics came immediately forward.

_"_Hey, Doc._" _One man hailed._ "_You were amazing with that old woman. She was less frightened because of you. Well done, man! A hero, I'd say…You saved lots of lives today."

"Huh?" John looked up. "Yeah, Gladys…um…Beddows! Where was she taken? I'd like to follow up."

"Sure thing! We'll find out…"

"Been a hard day for us all, but you're okay," the attending paramedic assured him with a clap on the shoulder. "You're cleared to go home, Doc, and at last, so am I." Swiftly, he packed up the medical kit and was gone.

Several other paramedics, who had been waiting patiently in a circle, took turns shaking John's hand; the last leaned over, "Your name again, sir?"

"John H. Watson…_Dr._ John H. Watson."

"Thank you, Dr. John H. Watson."

Nodding with a wry grin, John was barely able to contain his overwhelming emotions. He self-consciously palmed away tears.

During this exchange, silent serenity had returned to Sherlock. With eyes closed, he had been listening as they thanked Dr. John H. Watson.

And then he heard his name. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around him, and opened his eyes.

"Here's your phone." John, standing up with the mobile in his extended hand, was wrapped in a matching orange blanket. Sherlock could still see the hem of his overcoat underneath, nearly touching the ground. They were alone now. The team of admirers had dispersed, some to pack up the equipment and supplies, others to make final statements to the press.

"Mary said, tell Sherlock to give me a kiss _for her_."

"Well, that seems silly, John." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in protest as he pocketed his mobile. "Surely, your wife alone is responsible _for her_ displays of affection. Not my area."

"She also said you would say something like that." John chuckled with his head bowed.

"She _should _be pleased with herself. She _was _right." Sherlock grinned warmly at the man who, like Orpheus, had returned from his temporary venture in the underworld.

"Not a good idea, anyway, with our matching blankets," John snickered, casting his eyes toward the crew of rescue workers who were closing up the stations. "From a distance we would look like a large orange with four legs."

Sherlock managed a quirky smile, which faded as he closely observed his friend. Although the doctor would be too reticent to speak about his Underground ordeal, Sherlock didn't need to hear details to understand; the evidence was as plain as the specter of pain in John's face.

Instead, he sought his friend's gaze with open admiration in his own, and when their eyes met in friendship, they each understood the other, without talk. Sherlock extended his open palm.

John's brow furrowed in wonder, but he didn't hesitate to clasp the outstretched hand.

Wordlessly, they pumped the handshake for several seconds before Sherlock quickly pulled his friend closer with his free arm, broke into a low relieved laugh, and whispered, "Now, shall we get you home?"

John closed his eyes, momentarily succumbing to tremendous fatigue. Home sounded wonderful. Enfolded for the briefest of moment in his friend's strong embrace, he was lulled by the soothing sound of the beating of heart and smiled. _Maybe we're both in shock!_

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	3. Chapter 3: Crossover ACTION IN MISSING

_This last chapter unifies and completes the storylines of both MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING, as it, in fact, picks up from the last chapter of MISSING IN ACTION. _

_As always, your reviews fuel my creativity. I cannot do this without you in mind, so please share what you think. _

**_ACTION In MISSING_**

**_Chapter 5_**

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"John?"

_"__John!"_

Why did the coaxing sound of his name seem both muffled and resonant? Like sound coming through his stethoscope?

_Sherlock?7_

Dreaming, John Watson blinked awake to the familiar voice.

_Where am I_?

Enfolded in the arms of the consulting detective, the weary doctor's head had slumped against the chest of his friend, his cheek brushing the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

It took him a moment to remember how he got there…

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The last three injured passengers from the Underground derailment required the most critical care before they could be moved. Two women with suspected neck injuries were secured on boards by paramedic teams, but the last, Gladys Beddows, remained trapped.

With permission granted by the officials, John was allowed to keep his promise. It did not matter that he was just a surrogate for her lost son. He didn't care. It was the right thing to do, and he wanted to do it.

He stayed beside her on the floor, observing the rescue efforts from the ground—armies of booted feet quickly stepping past in what seemed like organized chaos—but he reserved his attentions mostly to the elderly lady whose trembling hand he patted soothingly.

"Are you still in pain?" John had checked to ensure that her medical team kept the dose balanced between managing her acute pain and keeping her responsive. Bruising was evident on her calf, but her ankle and foot were out of view under the collapsed seat.

"N' more. Can't feel my foot_.._. What if …?" she couldn't finish. Her eyes were swimming in tears, her lower lip quivering in fear. She was doing her best not to sob uncontrollably.

"Ahhhh, Gladys, I know it's unbelievably frightening right now," he whispered gently. "You have been amazing so far. Just a little more now, okay? First, we get you out of here, huh? Then the doctors will have a look at hospital. I have seen good medicine work miracles, so don't lose heart just yet, okay?"

In sympathy, real tears clouded his own eyes, which he wiped on a frayed sleeve. What an enigma he was. Whilst as a professional, Dr. Watson knew how to connect on an emotional level when his patients needed it, yet as John Watson, he struggled with expressing his personal feelings especially with those he loved the most. "So tell me a little more about yourself. We might as well get acquainted proper."

When her energy allowed, she chatted about her family, good memories about her son, but mostly about her youth and her budding career as a dancer. When she tired, she dozed restfully, without grimaces twitching her faded cheeks—a good sign that her medication was appropriate for her pain levels.

As he lay there quietly beside his sleeping patient, snippets of memory conjured vivid recollections from his own life: first as a surgeon saving lives. He missed this—his adrenaline spikes, sharpening his medical skills to perform heroic deeds under attack. Trained as an army doctor at St. Bart's and signed on with the _Fifth __Northumberland Fusiliers_, he had worked very hard to become a man of worth, a respected Captain. At the height of his shining army career, golden boy Dr. John Watson was defined by his accomplishments, by his sterling record, by the brotherhood of soldiers with whom he formed friendships quickly and to whom he had committed his LIFE in service.

It all ended in one defining moment that brought him low, figuratively and literally. In a pool of his own blood, he lay upon the ground, fire lancing through his shoulder, darkness shutting off the glaring sun.

After many months of rehabilitation and finally being invalided, the army doctor discovered his greatest losses—his worth, his confidence, his friends, all gone with the career he called LIFE. Instead, a civilian now, he remained in the muted shadows as a "nobody," discarded, worthless and "unattached," Without a LIFE and no longer "the kind to make friends easily" _(as Mycroft had observed at their first meeting). _He was "feeling so alone."

Gladys woke again from a short nap. "Oh…yes. I enjoyed Irish step dancing..." her voice wavered with exhaustion, but she resumed the conversation exactly where it had left off, to John's amazement. "Branched into English Lancashire Clog dancing," she sighed, "but it was scandalous of me—a woman—to want to do tap—it was mostly for men!" Her pale blue eyes grew distant as she searched her memories. "My family misunderstood. The English style of tap…so light and elegant, is more classical!" Eyelids, like crepe paper, closed again as she managed a weak smile. "My family objected. But I mastered it anyway…and I was _damn_ good."

John chuckled, admiring her strong spirit and sharp mind. She would need both for recovery.

"Your turn." She nodded drowsily at John. "More about… _your_ dancer friend."

"Oh…right! Before the wedding, we tried to keep the dancing lessons secret to surprise my fiancée, who is now my wife, Mary. It was really exceptionally decent of him to give me ballroom lessons…" John trailed off. Gladys was asleep again.

In the privacy of his thoughts, John recalled with regret that, once again, he failed to speak his thanks aloud. Sherlock had shown great patience in teaching him, offering criticism tempered with praise and encouragement. Devoid of snide utterances or derogatory remarks, the consulting detective was a different man as a dance instructor. They practiced graceful steps, correct posture and hold, so John could lead his bride during their wedding day dance with confidence. More touching, Sherlock composed a unique work for the violin, which he played in their honor: the man had a heart as extraordinary as his mind, despite his own claims to the contrary!

At last, the emergency teams arrived to cut the pinned woman from the wreckage. John gently rubbed Gladys' hand, waking her enough to observe her alertness, and assuring her the work would be quick. It was! As soon she was freed, the paramedics immediately stabilized her, prepping her damaged limb and crushed hip for transport out and away for urgent medical care. The pace was hectic, yet their action cautious, and John followed resolutely, whenever possible keeping her hand clasped in his, as they found their way to the surface and an awaiting gurney.

Night had descended with a foggy chill, but bright lamps created a direct runway for passage of the last casualties to the ready ambulances.

During one brief pause, John removed the whistle from his neck, coiled it into a ball along with its string, and placed it in the woman's hand. "Do me a favor, Gladys dear." He folded her fist closed. "Hold this for me. I don't need it anymore, and I will probably lose it. You can give it back when I visit you in hospital. It actually doesn't even belong to me. So you will be helping me get it back to its rightful owner."

"God love you, so like my good son. God rest his soul." Her eyelids flitted closed as the IV painkillers kicked in once again. Her words were soft and dreamlike. "You will come back… to me?"

"Of course! Of course I will." John couldn't help but feel he was speaking on behalf of her son with his answer. "Okay! Ready, now? It's our turn—Go!"

A sudden uproar of cheers, hollers, and applause accompanied the paramedics, patient, and doctor as they raced toward the ambulance. Metronet teams, Met officials, volunteers, and first responders shouted with tremendous relief as the last victim, rescued from the derailment site, headed away.

Sprinting along with the gurney, John kept his grip firmly around the boney hand, although Gladys had fallen asleep before they reached the open doors of the ambulance. Once they loaded her in, there were no words of goodbye, except the paramedics shouting "thanks, Doc." He was left standing alone, the connection finally broken, the chill of the winter night immediately creeping into his weary limbs.

Then he heard his name in that unmistakable voice, spoken in a way he had never heard before.

"JOHN!"

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"John!" It was an echo from a recent memory.

"John, are you alright?"

"Hmmmm? Fine." He had been asleep on his feet. Just for a moment, the comfort and safety of his friend's hug worked like a sedative. John blinked again trying to get his bearings, aware now that he was draped in Sherlock's long coat, covered by another blanket, and held up by his tall friend.

"Sorry." He mumbled with some embarrassment, trying to break away.

"Don't be." The baritone voice gently broke with a soft cough, cloaking the emotional register, followed by a distinctive clearing of the throat, then Sherlock steadied John on his feet before letting him stand free.

"_Normally NOT _disposed to taking a kip in people's arms…standing up… _and_ in public. Ask Mary. " John massaged his head in bewilderment, disheveling his close-cropped hair. Wispy blond spikes stood on end. "But then again, as you're so fond of telling me, guess I'm NOT normal."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with amusement, but he forced control over his emotions to remark impassively, "There is no need for apologies. You are worn out, and I am not. You need rest. I rarely do. You have at last surfaced…after the hours I've spent here wondering where you were, but it is precisely why I am here—for you. It's simple logic."

"Reason or no, kipping in any man's arms is just as like to rekindle _idle gossip_ and _dinner conversation_ … especially when it comes to us. Here! Take this before we get into trouble. I'll keep your scarf." John quipped in half jest, removing Sherlock's coat from his own shoulders and trading it for the blanket Sherlock had been wearing instead. Doubling up both blankets, even with the scarf, might not be enough against the chill, but John expected they wouldn't be lingering much longer. _Maybe I could locate my jacket?_

As he looked at his Belstaff with uncertainty before slipping it on, Sherlock leveled his voice in dead seriousness. "Does it matter? People will always believe what they want, even when the facts prove otherwise."

"What are the facts?" John raised his eyebrows, curious. Sherlock was not sporting with him.

Turning up his collar against the cold, Sherlock hesitated and swiftly dropped his gaze. "You are my one and only Dr. John H. Watson. No one and nothing will change that." When he slowly lifted his eyes again, John's face was blushing, his smile elated, his deep blue eyes staring back at Sherlock with wonder.

John was stunned by the genuine expression of sentiment that came from Sherlock Holmes and focused on his friend's face. In the harsh emergency lights, John could see the familiar ice blue eyes, the set of the full lips, high cheekbones, fair skin made paler by raven curls that framed the thin face. From such a description, an NSY artist might translate a likeness in a recognizable rendering, but it would not have captured what John actual saw.

_Too often, Sherlock, you have chided me, 'You can see everything, John, but you fail to reason from what you see. Don't be hurt, you know that I am quite impersonal. No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But clearly you have missed some vital points…'_

Clearly John did not miss the vital points in Sherlock's countenance. For a third time since John's return from the Underground that evening, the consulting detective had ceased to be a reasoning machine and betrayed his capacity for human love. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which would customarily turn away with disdain from any expressions of commitment, fidelity, and abiding affection—and yes, love—("Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.") was revealing such depth of feeling.

At last, John saw the unmistakable proof of Sherlock's humanity which he had always believed existed, ever since Sherlock gave him the first inkling in the dawning of their partnership:

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**'****So! Didn't take me long, John, to decide... about YOU.'**

**Working surveillance that was incredibly tedious, at least to John, they were sitting in complete darkness at 2:30 a.m, sipping tepid coffee in paper cups, purchased hours before from the local bistro. The room they booked in the inn, 'coincidentally' overlooking the client's home, had two beds, and one in particular was calling John's name. However, Sherlock was on a CASE and didn't permit sleep. The moonless night would make any lights from the house immediately obvious****—****as long as they remained in the dark as well****—****and then the game would be on. Jittery with excitement in anticipation of final proof, substantiating his magnificent deduction that would seal the case, Sherlock, of course, had no trouble staying alert and paced the floor. John, on the other hand, was constantly nodding off in a nearby armchair.**

**Again the rhythmic breaths of sleep arose from John, prompting Sherlock's impatience. With his statement, that seemed to come from nowhere, the consulting detective deliberately threw the 'weary dog' an interesting bone to chew. **

**'****Huh? What?' John snorted and shook his head.**

**'****I said, it didn't take me long to decide.' **

**Their words floated in the darkness, mere sounds had to substitute for all lack of visual cues. **

**'****Decide? About me, did you say? How's that?'**

**'****You were there in the lab at St. Bart's, John, when I asked Mike Stamford to borrow his phone. He declined with an excuse…****_not the truth_****, mind you. You****—****a perfect stranger—offered ****your phone. Most people wouldn't have. Why did you give me your phone?'**

**'****Because you needed it?'**

**'****Do you always lend your phone to people?**

**'****Guess so. Dunno. If they need it. Well, depends on who they are.'**

**'****But in this case, you didn't know who I was.'**

**'****Right, true. But Mike knew you.'**

**'****But****_ you_**** didn't know me. Did you trust Mike's judgment? He didn't think I was worthy enough to have his phone.'**

**'****Well, Mike had suggested I meet you…we talked about sharing a flat—as you were looking and had just mentioned it to him that very day.'**

**'****So you lent me your phone on the possibility that I might be your flatmate?'**

**'****You're overthinking this, Sherlock.'**

**'****It's what I do.'**

**'****Primarily, I lent you the phone because you asked.' John yawned and stretched. 'Maybe, I lent you the phone because, on a subconscious level, I was making a gesture of goodwill…and perhaps, it was also a test, if we were going to be flatmates…to observe your reaction. You were polite and thankful. Y'see, first impressions are not always correct.'**

**'****A-Hah!'**

**'****Ahah, what?'**

**'****That's what I thought…you WERE observing me…without realizing it, but you were using your faculties to make a judgment call about a perfect stranger you had never before seen. Good for you, John. And you were a good judge of character, insightful**!'

**'****I just said I got the wrong impression… about you being polite.'**

**'****But beyond that, you instantly knew you could work with me.'**

**Blinking, John still couldn't see much, but it helped clear his thoughts. 'Don't think I knew...maybe felt, maybe hoped.'**

**'****What most people attribute to instinct and feelings is really their minds deducing facts.'**

**'****You think so?'**

**'****Obvious, isn't it? Your motives weren't strictly kindness. They were part practicality, too! When did you finally decide in my favor?'**

** '****Who says I've made that decision?'**

**'****No. really. When did you decide I passed your test?'**

**'****Again, you ASSUME you've passed my test.'**

**John sensed that if they could see each other, Sherlock would be giving him one of his stern looks. The consulting detective's words proved John had deduced correctly.**

**'****You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, John, against which I must learn to guard myself.'**

**Chuckling heartily, John savored his amusement with additional sighs and snickers. There was an echo of laughter, softer, from Sherlock. **

**'****Okay,' the doctor finally relented. 'When did you pass my test…? Hmmm. Well, that's harder to say.'**

**'****Why?'**

**'****So much happened from the moment you asked if I had been in Afghanistan or Iraq...your deductions about me, your invitation to work the case…our ridiculous taxicab chase…you made me laugh so hard, and my laughing made you laugh…little things. Little things began to add up to bigger things. I thought you were extraordinary in what you do, but you were so arrogant and obnoxious to everyone. People kept warning me to stay away. The more they pushed, the more stubborn I became. The fact that you were aware of everyone else's bad opinions about you, and that you didn't care one wit—everyone was an idiot— intrigued me. More amazing, you kept asking me for my opinions, even though I was just as much an idiot as everyone else, but you seemed to care about them. Or at least listen to them.'**

**'****So you accumulated data to deduce you opinion… about me.'**

**'****In the normal way. It takes time. It couldn't be instant like you do it. I haven't always been correct when I make quick decisions, but I have learned that observations do help a person get to know another better and even come to care…'**

**'****Usually don't let my observations result in caring.'**

**'****Usually?'**

**'****Never mind. And what was your opinion?'**

**'****I realized you needed help. ****_My_**** help. You said it yourself, you couldn't work with Anderson. You asked me. But there was more. You needed someone who could guide your through the maze of contradictions of human nature…because you didn't get it. As brilliant as you were, you were an idiot, and friendless, just like me.'**

**'****Hmmm. So when you realized I was an idiot you decided in my favor?'**

**'****When I realized you were an idiot****_ because_**** you didn't have a friend, that's when I decided…and because, when I called you an idiot, you liked it and laughed. We laughed together. We were on even ground. You understood me. I was beginning to understand you. We could be friends.' **

**Sherlock inhaled, but said nothing.**

**'****Now, it's my turn. When did I pass your test?'**

**'****There were many tests, John. Some you didn't pass...'**

**'****Right, then. Okay…but the first time? When was that?**

**'****You passed with "Er, here. Use mine.'" **

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An extraordinary insight, like a shiver along his spine, rippled through John Watson as he recalled the strange conversation they had years ago. They had made great progress since then. Never dreaming his expectations about Sherlock could be surpassed, John needed to acknowledge this stunning truth as he stood opposite his best friend—reading him.

"Sherlock," John fumbled for the right words, struggling to overcome his usual reticence, but regrets from his Tube derailment ordeal loosened his tongue. "I…I can't thank you enough… for giving me tonight…something I've never had before—even when I returned from the service —a brother to welcome me home…"

"It's okay, John." Deeply touched, Sherlock was immensely pleased by the word 'brother,' since he had just made the same inference earlier that night. Rewarding his 'brother' with a rare affectionate smile, Sherlock intoned, "Welcome home. Oh, yes! Hang on!"

With running strides, Sherlock crossed the distance toward an official seated at a table. Wildly gesturing arms and a steady finger pointing toward John looked peculiar from the distance. Sherlock seemed to be tap dancing his way through a conversation in a magnificent display of conviction and purpose. Several others were pulled into the discussion. Nods were exchanged, a box was retrieved, and Sherlock picked through its contents. When the official ticked off his clipboard, Sherlock came bounding back, with something in hand.

"Here. Your jacket. And wallet. Please, don't lose this again." His sideward glance could not hide his smile of extreme satisfaction. "Now, let's get you home…to Mary."

It took longer than usual for John to suppress his private smile and grateful heart behind a straight face. Once in the taxicab, pleasantries visited the light sleep that quickly overtook the weary doctor. _This is all so perfect. Hmmm. So perfect. Too perfect!_ A dark thought undercut his happiness with sudden worry and woke him with a start.

_This can't last! Happiness never does!_

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A.N. For a fanfiction "exploring what poor Mary was going through as she waited for word," check out TOO MUCH TO ASK. Keeping within the BBC backstory of Mary M. Watson, TOO MUCH TO ASK is a companion piece to MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING. Special thanks to englishtutor for suggesting it.

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	4. Chapter 4 Author's Note

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A.N. For a fanfiction "exploring what poor Mary was going through as she waited for word," check out TOO MUCH TO ASK. Keeping within the BBC backstory of Mary M. Watson, TOO MUCH TO ASK is a companion piece to MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING. Special thanks to englishtutor for suggesting it.

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